


The Blogger And The Bombshell

by afteriwake



Category: Doctor Who, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-06
Updated: 2012-07-06
Packaged: 2017-11-09 06:38:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/452439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afteriwake/pseuds/afteriwake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All she had were online conversations and a grainy newsprint photo. But he'd asked her out for a pint without knowing what she looked like, so it was worth a shot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Blogger And The Bombshell

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [ th3bookthief ](http://th3bookthief.tumblr.com) over on Tumblr, who asked for John/Amy. This was so hard to write since I’ve been writing nothing but Sherlock/Amy for what feels like forever, but I’m happy with it. Hope you like it, dear!

It began with a chat with a blog author. Amelia was bored and reading this fascinating blog about a detective named Sherlock Holmes. It was so fabulous that she started ignoring Rory for large swaths of time just to hop online and chat with the blog author. He wasn’t all that happy about it; after all, they were a couple and they were supposed to spend time together and why was she chatting away with another man? He didn’t understand, and after more than a few fights she returned his ring and called the engagement off.

She hadn’t meant for it to get so far out of hand, but the more she talked to John Watson the more she was intrigued by him. He did something she’d dreamed about, solving crimes. Well, he helped. Sherlock Holmes did all the solving, and while she would admit he was brilliant and all he seemed…weird. Just from reading the blog entries she got it, and then chatting with John about them sort of confirmed it. But soon the conversation turned away from crimes solved and onto more personal things, and she found she could relate to John so much more.

She told him about how she’d ended her engagement because her fiancée got jealous; he told her he’d been through six girlfriends since he became friends with Sherlock because none of them understood that he would most likely always put Sherlock first. After all, in a sense, Sherlock had saved his life. She could see that, could understand it, and teased him for having bad taste in women. He responded by asking her to grab a pint with him if she was ever in London.

She made her way to London so fast she wasn’t even sure why she was doing it. She’d never met him face to face. She’d seen one picture of him, where his friend Sherlock took up most of the picture. He looked short, or perhaps Sherlock was just a giant and he was average. He didn’t smile, and it was black and white newsprint so she couldn’t tell much other than he was blonde. She hadn’t sent him a picture, so he had no clue what she looked like when he asked. And she realized that was what made her go so quickly: he’d asked her out for a pint based solely on what she told him, not what she looked like.

He had given her his address, and with trepidation she made her way to the door. She took a deep breath and knocked. “Go away,” she heard a man with a deep baritone say. That had to be Sherlock.

“I’m looking for John Watson,” she said.

“John!” the baritone called out. “Make her go away!”

“Listen you rude little piece of—“ she started, but the door swung open. In front of her stood John Watson. He was shorter than her, but other than that she realized he looked much better than the grainy news picture. “Oh. Hi. Um…I know this is strange, but I’m Amelia Pond, and you asked me to grab a pint with you if I was in London.”

She could see someone move into the doorway behind him. “I take it she’s the girl you’ve been chatting with online?” Sherlock said.

“Yes,” John replied.

“You’ve done worse,” he replied.

Amy scowled. Already she was beginning to loathe Sherlock Holmes, but John stepped outside and shut the door behind him. “Ignore him,” he said. “We haven’t had a challenging case in a week.”

“Oh,” she said.

“I’m free now, if you’d like to go now.”

“I’d like that,” she said with a smile. He grinned back and gestured to the first door she’d gone through. She turned around and he followed her, and when they got to the busy street outside he began walking and she kept in step with him. “I can see why your girlfriends didn’t like him,” she said.

“I think he meant the ‘you’ve done worse’ remark as a compliment,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “He seems to think you’re witty from the e-mails he’s seen.”

“He’s read my e-mails to you?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

“He has this habit of using my laptop to do everything,” he admitted. “And there have been a few times he’s read over my shoulder as I typed a reply.”

“Ah,” she said. “And you said he thinks I’m witty?”

“He also realizes you don’t like him, but you’re up front and honest about it. Most of my girlfriends try and be his friend and fail miserably. He’s not a friend-type person.”

“Yes, I’m starting to see that more clearly.” She looked ahead. “What do you think of me?”

“I think you’re stunning,” he said. “I mean, witty, too. And funny, and smart. I just made a fool of myself, didn’t I?”

“No, I’d say you’re off to a good start towards making up for your friend there,” she said with a wide grin.

They made small talk until they got to the bar, and they each ordered a pint, him of the house draft and her of Guinness. They started to talk, _really_ talk, and the beers went mostly untouched. She found she hadn’t smiled so much in such a long time; too many arguments with Rory had put her in a sour mood. But he knew just what to say to bring a smile to her face, or bring a laugh bubbling up in her throat. Soon the bar crowd started to thin down until it was just the two of them and the bartender showed signs of wanting to close up.

“Perhaps we should go?” she suggested.

“I know you’re from out of town. Do you have a place to stay for the night?” he asked.

She shook her head. “I was going to find a cheap hotel and stay for the night,” she said.

“I can sleep on the sofa, if you want to stay at my place,” he said.

She smiled at him. “Ever the gentleman,” she said. “All right, I accept.” They left their barely touched beers and headed back to 221B Baker Street. When they walked in Sherlock was wide awake, and he had a gun in his hand. She looked at him. “Thinking of using it on your head?” she asked with a fake smile and a sweet tone.

“More like the wall, but I’ve already left too many bullet holes in it,” he said.

“Pity,” she replied.

“You don’t like me much, do you?” he asked, narrowing his eyes.

“I think you’re an arrogant insufferable arsehole who’s only tolerable because he’s got a brilliant mind,” she said.

He looked at her and blinked. “You think I have a brilliant mind?”

“Of course. How would you have solved so many cases otherwise?”

They both looked at John, who was cringing slightly. “I _like_ her,” Sherlock said.

John’s jaw dropped. “Excuse me?”

“Most of your girlfriends underestimate my intelligence. I believe Sarah was the last one who appreciated it. And she’s forthright and honest. Speaks what’s on her mind, doesn’t like to sugarcoat things. I’d say she’s a keeper. Don’t be too loud tonight, I’ve been going over a case Lestrade dropped off while you were gone.”

“I’m taking the couch tonight,” he said.

“You must _really_ like her, then,” he said. “Stayed out until the bar closed and giving up your bed for her.”

Despite the look on John’s face Amy smiled. “Yeah, he’s a keeper all right. Have fun with your case, Sherlock.”

“I intend to,” he called out before John ushered her out. 

He looked bewildered, as though he was replaying the scene that had just happened in his head and was wondering something important. “Did he just voice his approval for you?” he asked.

“I think he did,” she said.

“Unbelievable.” He shook his head slightly. “Let me show you where you’re sleeping.” He took her to where his bedroom was, grabbed a spare blanket and pillow for him, and met her at the door. “Good night, Amelia.”

“Good night, John.” She leaned over and kissed him softly on the lips. “Thank you.”

He nodded slightly and stammered his thanks in return, and then left. She went to the bed and turned back the sheets. Yes, John Watson certainly was a keeper…and maybe Sherlock wasn’t all that bad, either. With that thought in her head, she laid down and went to sleep.


End file.
